


Happiness: A Step by Step Guide

by Vlara



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Caution Skin Junkrat, Demo Man Junkrat, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I'm sorry McCree fans, Insecurity, M/M, Maybe its more like medium smut, McCree as a villian?, Misunderstandings, More domestic fluff, One-Sided Attraction, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Self Help Style, Some light smut, Unrequited Crush, fluff for days, unwanted flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-03-23 11:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13786305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vlara/pseuds/Vlara
Summary: This story is written in the style of a self help guide to falling in love and starting a relationship with a construction worker on the demolition crew of your new job named Jamison Fawkes. Inspired by Junkrat’s new Caution skin.Preview:“Torbjörn will frown and stare at you a moment. Then he’ll grunt in acknowledgement and head down the hall toward his office. Jamison will beam and give you a thumbs up and wink before following your boss. Stand there behind the reception desk and stare after him. Feel your heart clench tight in your chest. It will have been a while, but you’ll know what it means. Glance at his hastily scrawled number as if you haven’t already memorized it. Think: Fuck.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I have written and published in years. I really hope you enjoy it. I tried to do a self help style. I envisioned the reader as a cis woman, but I think it can be read across the gender spectrum. If there is something that stands out as not fitting in with that, let me know, and I'll look into it.

On your first day of work as a receptionist for Lindholm Construction after you have finished training, forget at least 50% of what your trainer taught you. When customers call, transfer them to the wrong departments. When a vendor calls, hang up on them instead of placing them on hold. Stare at the switchboard like it’s the controls to an alien spaceship. Think:  _ Fuck.  _ Dig frantically about the desk among the scattered papers there for your notes between these failed attempts at doing what you were hired for. When you find them, the phone will ring again. Answer it and do your best to help the customer on the other end. Say:  _ I’m not sure about the answer to that, sir  _ at least four times. Say:  _ I’ll have to check into that for you, sir _ at least five. Wonder if he can hear the fake smile in your voice, if he knows how close you are to having a complete breakdown. When the call ends, breathe a sigh of relief. Sit up straight in your chair to type in his information, glad that something is finally going right. Scooch in and stare at your own horrified reflection as your computer clicks off, and the screen goes black. Stifle a scream and try pressing every button on the keyboard and tower. None of them will work. Realize you must have hit the power strip with your foot. Crawl under the desk to find it. Before you do, the front door will swing open with a slam. Jump and bang your head on the desk. The pain will slide along your skull like water. Decide enough is enough. Think:  _ Whoever that is can just turn around and walk right back out _ . Cry. Make sure it’s not too loud by pulling up your knees and pressing your face into them. Put your hands over your ears to drown out the world. Make sure you don’t hear the strange, rhythmic  _ tap-clunk-tap-clunk-tap-clunk _ that echoes into the room.

  


Try to compose yourself. Think:  _ You have a job to do.  _ Think:  _ Grow up for God’s sake.  _ Slowly open your eyes and lift your head. When you do, you’ll see a man directly in front of you, peering at you under the desk. He’ll be seated cross-legged, though one of those legs will seem to be some kind of peg painted in yellow and black to resemble caution markers. The other will sport a big, black, steel-toed work boot with a yellow sole. He will be hunched forward to see you, leaning his chin on his left hand with its fingerless glove that shows off his black nail polish and resting that hand on his knee. His other hand and forearm will be bright yellow metal and gripping what appears to be a large cup of boba tea. A thick green straw will lead to his mouth, and you will be able to see that his teeth are as sharp as the rest of his features. His eyes, amber like flame, will be staring right at you from under thick, bushy eyebrows, flame-like also, an echo of his hair that swoops upward into many sharp points. Remember, unbidden, the campfires of your youth, the warmth and comfort they provided on those cold, frightening nights in the middle of the woods. Once he has your attention, his angular grin will grow wider and sharper. When he speaks, it will be with a thick, Australian accent:  _ G’day! Name’s Jamison. You new here?  _

  


Notice his tight, black t-shirt with the word  _ DEMO _ printed on a small yellow rectangle on his chest. Recognize it as the uniform of the demolition crew of Lindholm Construction. Don’t trust your voice not to break. Nod instead. He’ll nod back and ask:  _ You alright? You can have some of me boba if you want. Always cheers me up.  _

  


Be confident that you are not, in fact, alright. Open your mouth to tell him you’re fine and make up some excuse for being caught weeping under a table. Fat tears will begin rolling down your cheeks, surprising you both. Break down. Tell him everything. Tell him how hard you’ve been trying, how badly you need this job. Tell him about each mistake you’ve made. Tell him about the rent that’s due and the car you already had to sell and the fear that you’ll just end up fucking this up too, the way you’ve fucked up all your other chances to get yourself into a good spot. Speak until you have nothing left to say, until he knows about all the things that have brought you to that spot under the desk. He’ll stay on the floor with you, hunched over and listening to every word. He’ll nod in the appropriate spots, make noises of disapproval at those who’ve wronged you, and not say a single thing until you’re done. Sit there in silence for a moment, spent and exhausted. Part of you will be pushing toward another breakdown, this one in mortification for spilling your guts to a stranger, a co-worker, to Jamison. But he’ll stop you with a grin, saying:  _ My second week on the job, I blew off me own arm and leg fucking around at me shop at home. Took near six months to be able to come in, much less do anything. Ol’ Torb didn’t fire me for tha’, so he ain’t bloody likely to fire you.  _ Let your eyes widen in horror. Try not to stare at his peg leg or metal arm. He’ll laugh, and it’ll be louder than you expect. He’ll thrust the boba in your direction and say:  _ Come on then. Drink up!  _ Take a sip before thinking about how unsanitary it is to drink after someone you just met, but the tea will be sweet and smooth, and to your surprise, it will cheer you up. 

  


Watch as Jamison crawls forward and reaches past you to flip the switch of your power strip back on before standing up and holding out his gloved hand to help you out from under your desk. He’ll say:  _ There we go. All better. _ His grin will be all teeth now, slightly discolored with some of them sharp and some gold, and he’ll gently take the boba from you. He’ll give your upper arm a reassuring squeeze. Before he can step away, throw your arms around him. Bury your face in his shirt and take in his scent of diesel and concrete dust and sweat. Note how much taller he is than you thought when he was all hunched over on the floor. Be as grateful to him as you have ever been to anyone in your entire life. Whisper:  _ Thank you. _ Feel him go rigid, and he’ll awkwardly pat you on the back for a moment before allowing himself to hug you properly. He’ll whisper back:  _ No worries, mate.  _ Stand there for a moment and feel okay for the first time in a long while. 

  


Suddenly, Jamison will push you to arm’s length.  _ Oh shit! I came here for a reason!  _ He will sprint away down the hall that leads to the offices of the different departments before sprinting back with a rolled up blueprint in his hand.  _ Torb’s gonna be as mad as a cut snake that I took so long.  _ He’ll hurtle out the door toward a beat-up orange truck and jump into its cab, turning the key to make it roar to life. Close your eyes and sigh. Feel better. Feel much better. A few moments later, Jamison will startle you again by sprinting back through the door and up to you. He’ll grab a yellow sticky note off your desk and scribble his phone number on it before sticking it to your hand and quickly turning away. He’ll wave as he hurries out the door, shouting behind him:  _ Let’s be mates, yeah?  _ Smile to yourself and whisper:  _ Yeah. _

  


The phone number will be in writing that is legible, but only barely, and there will be a black smudged thumbprint just below it. Look at it and smile. Feel much, much better. When the phone rings again, answer it and transfer the caller to the correct department. 

  


At the end of your shift, watch as the demolition crew returns to the office, led by the owner of the company, Torbjörn. At only about five feet tall, it’ll be almost funny to watch as he scowls and chastises Jamison who’ll trail behind him and stand nearly a foot and a half taller. Torbjörn‘s voice will be gruff:  _ I’m telling ya’, I know exactly where I left those plans. I just can’t believe they’d take ya’ an hour to find them.  _

  


Jamison will look sheepish, but he won’t look to you to come to his defense. Do it anyway. Say:  _ Mr. Lindholm, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I watched Jamison search everywhere for those plans. I’m not sure where they were supposed to be, but it really did take him the whole time to find them.  _

  


Torbjörn will frown and stare at you a moment. Then he’ll grunt in acknowledgement and head down the hall toward his office. Jamison will beam and give you a thumbs up and wink before following your boss. Stand there behind the reception desk and stare after him. Feel your heart clench tight in your chest. It will have been a while, but you’ll know what it means. Glance at his hastily scrawled number as if you haven’t already memorized it. Think:  _ Fuck _ .

  


Time will pass. 

  


You’ll spend much of that time with Jamison, mostly going out to get boba at first. Having already told him your life story under that desk on the first day you met him, you’ll spend more time listening than speaking. Pay close attention to him.

  


Learn these things: He loves to talk. He moved to your country with his aunt and cousins when he was 18. He has an adorable freckle on his nose. He drinks boba every day. He’s always enjoyed chemistry, especially when that study results in explosions. His laugh is loud and raucous, bordering on maniacal at times. He’s worked for Lindholm Construction for almost 5 years. He has insomnia. He considers himself a barbecue master. He giggles in a way that can’t be described as anything but cute. He is 25. He has the same zodiac sign you do. His favorite part of his job is the implosions. He gets more handsome every time you see him. His best friend is named Mako and still lives in town near his aunt and cousins. He fixes his truck himself. His smile makes your heart ache. He has an Associate’s of Science in chemistry. His last name is Fawkes. He’s really glad you’re his friend.

  


Be really glad you’re his friend too. Be glad for any reason to be around him because by this point you’ll have an enormous crush on him. At some point, he’ll be bragging about his barbecue prowess again. Say:  _ I’d love to try it sometime.  _ Watch as his eyes light up. He’ll invite you to come over the very next day. Agree without hesitation.    
  


He’ll pick you up in his beat up orange truck. He’ll listen to old eighties rock and sing absurdly. Laugh and sing along when you know the words. Notice that you’re heading further and further from town. When he turns down a dirt road, ask:  _ You aren’t taking me to the middle of the woods to brutally murder me and hide the body, are you?  _ His laugh will be bright and loud. He’ll grin viciously at you and say:  _ You’d be in the back if that were the plan. Nah, I got a little place out here. Nice and quiet.  _ Retort:  _ Quiet?  _ Watch his eyes sparkle with amusement.  _ Jus’ nice when I’m about then. _

  


When you arrive, realize that  _ nice  _ is a gross overstatement. Look at the single-wide trailer with its dirty white siding, ramshackle front door, and weathered washer and dryer in the front yard. Look at Jamison who will be scratching the back of his head sheepishly. Do your best not to look disgusted. He’ll say:  _ Home sweet home.  _ Hold out hope that the inside of the trailer won’t be as bad. When he opens the door for you, that hope will be dashed. Between the yellowed floral wallpaper, the thinning brown linoleum, the threadbare furnishings, and the damaged mini blinds, the only redeeming quality of the room will be Jamison himself, who will be red-faced and frowning as if he’s just then realizing that his home might be something to be embarrassed about. Resolve to erase that look and keep it from reappearing again. Say:  _ So? When do we eat? _

  


The barbecue will be delicious, better than you expect. Eat at his outdoor picnic table with more abandon than usual. He will grin from ear to ear when he sees how much you enjoy it. He’ll promise to cook for you whenever you want. Say:  _ Oh, I’ll definitely take you up on that.  _ Think about the drab interior of his trailer, of the sad, threadbare couch, of the nicotine yellow walls. Think of him sleeping there at night in the dust and the stale air. Choose your words carefully. Say:  _ You know I’d feel guilty if you were always feeding me, and I wasn’t doing anything for you. How about a trade in services?  _ He’ll raise an eyebrow, look intrigued, ask what you have in mind. Recognize the minefield of a conversation you have started. Maneuver cautiously. Say:  _ My favorite class in college was this interior design course I took. Maybe I could help you decorate in exchange for more of your amazing cooking.  _ Anxiety will fill you as his eyebrows furrow. Say:  _ Sorry, that’s just my best skill. I don’t have much else to offer. I just really want to eat this well again soon, and I’m the kind of person that can’t take advantage of others’ hospitality.  _ Smile. Do your best to make it look genuine, to keep the fear off of your face. After a few moments, he’ll smile back and say:  _ Sounds like a fair deal _ . Try not to look too visibly relieved. 

  
He’ll bring you inside after eating, let you look around at his small, dingy bathroom, his room with the unmade bed and dresser with broken drawers. He’ll explain that he bought the place cheap when he got the job at Lindholm and had all kinds of plans to fix it up, but after his accident, he had to put them on hold and never got around to doing it once he got better. Watch him grip the place where his arm turns from flesh to metal. Turn away and pretend not to notice. Walk to one of the dirty windows, pull the string on the blinds to lift them up in a fine shower of dust, and slide the window open. The sunlight will stream in, and a fresh breeze will blow your hair gently back from your face. Turn slightly to look at him. He’ll be staring at you. Grin. Say:  _ Thank you for letting me do this. You deserve it.  _ Watch his eyes widen with some kind of revelation. His smile will burst forth like an explosion.  _ Ta’ to you too. _


	2. Chapter 2

In the following days, talk to Jamison about colors and patterns. Learn that he loves yellows and oranges and reds. That will be completely unsurprising. Think about his home all the time. Think about him all the time. Take him to Ikea and laugh as he complains about the confusing layout, the huge amount of people. Share a plate of Swedish meatballs in the cafe; then watch him eat a second one all on his own. Let your face relax into adoration. Lean into your hand with your elbow on the table and watch him wolf down his food. When he looks up at you, point out the gravy on his chin and laugh as he hurriedly wipes it away.

Head back to his place with his truck nearly overflowing with boxes. Stay to help assemble the myriad of bookshelves, tables, chairs, and other furniture. Marvel at how efficient Jamison is in getting everything put together. When you compliment him, he’ll waggle his eyebrows and say: _I’m really good with my hands_ around the allen wrench in his mouth. He’ll wiggle his fingers at you, metal and flesh alike. Throw one of his new orange cushions into his face. Eat pizza with him at his new kitchen table on one of his new chairs. The moon will shine in through the open window. Allow yourself to pretend for a moment that this is more than it is. That the trailer is your home that you share with Jamison, that when you finish eating you’ll go to his bedroom that is also your bedroom and cuddle into his new red comforter that is also your new red comforter, that you’ll sleep beside him and wake up looking at his face, feeling his hands resting lightly on your waist. Look at him, and he’ll grin despite the pizza in his mouth making his cheeks puff out comically. Push that fantasy from your mind. Be grateful for the friendship you have and promise yourself you won’t do anything to mess it up. When you finish eating, ask him to take you home. He’ll wipe the grease from his chin with the back of his hand and say: _Sure_.

Time will pass.

Work will be going well. You’ll feel comfortable and in control. Answer the phones with confidence. Transfer the calls with the same confidence. Know all the answers to the callers’ questions or at least where to find them. Some of the women in the office will tell you that you’ve been doing a great job. Be proud of yourself.

Jamison will stop by your desk every morning and evening to chat and tell stupid jokes. Laugh at all of them even when others who hear roll their eyes. He’ll draw a smiley face with huge teeth and x’s over the eyes on one of your yellow sticky notes. His tongue will stick out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on drawing little rays emanating from it. He’ll reach over your desk and put it on the lower right hand corner of your monitor. Leave it there. Find yourself looking at it all the time, thinking about him. Wonder what it would be like to be held by him, to kiss that angular mouth. When he comes in the next morning and waves at you with a huge grin on his face, wave back and don’t allow yourself to hope.

Time will pass.

You will get together to paint his trailer on a Saturday after spending every night of the previous week scraping off the horrid floral wallpaper. He’ll put on his favorite ‘80s music again and sing as loudly and absurdly as ever. Laugh and sing along. You’ll know the words at this point. You’ll get the deep orange paint for his living room on your forearms and elbows, the soft yellow of his bedroom on the old t-shirt you’ll wear. When the fumes get to be too much, eat sub sandwiches out on his lawn. The lettuce in his will fall out as he gesticulates with it while telling you about something that happened on the construction site the day before. Find this absolutely adorable. Say: _We should probably clean up._ He’ll nod in agreement, the yellow and orange paint flecks on his cheeks standing out in sharp relief. He’ll say: _Too right! The bathroom’s still dryin’, so let’s use the sink in me shop._

Follow him to the concrete building on the side of his property. He’ll lead you inside with a flourish, saying: _Here’s where the magic happens._ The walls will be lined with tools, all smudged with grease. There will be a sink in the corner where Jamison will begin washing up while humming to himself. Take in the broad wooden workbench and tattered, duct taped stool in front of it, the myriad of intricately designed schematics on the wall behind it, the chaos of tools and scrap and bottles of chemicals atop it. Then look down at the concrete floor. Notice a stain. It will be very light, barely there, but huge in scope, like an enormous cloud covering half the floor in a light brown tint. Furrow your eyebrows at it and think on what it might be. Oil? Coffee? A leak in the roof?

Realization will hit you like a freight train. Bring one hand to cover your stunned mouth, the other to your chest to press into the ache in your heart that will blossom there. Think: _Oh my god!_ Glance over at Jamison, at the bright yellow metal arm he’ll be scrubbing, at the caution striped peg that extends from his shorts. Stare back at the floor. See him there in your mind’s eye. See him writhing on that floor, the brown stain now red and growing. See his mangled arm, bones bare and splintered. See his leg separated from his body with a boot still attached. Hear him screaming. Know that it would have been loud and painful, desperate and panicked. Know that no one could have heard him. Think: _How did he survive?_ Think: _Who could have saved him?_ Imagine him crawling across the floor, maimed and bloody, to reach his phone, wiping the blood on his shirt so the touch screen would work. Imagine the pain distorting his lovely face into something horrifying. Imagine him weeping. Feel your heart thunder in your chest. Feel yourself slide into fear. Think: _What if it happens again?_

That thought will wrench a sob from your throat. Jamison will turn and see you staring downward. He’ll know instantly what is going through your mind and fly into a panic. He’ll rush to your side, hold onto your arms with his flesh and metal hands, both still wet. He’ll gently usher you back outside. The fresh air will help you calm down. It will not help Jamison. If anything, he seems to be freaking out more by the second. He’ll put his hands down, lift them up again, wring them as if he is unsure what to do with them. His face will twist in worry. Listen to him babble: _I’m so sorry, darl’. I really cocked that up. I didn’t think about the floor lookin’ like that. I mean, I used a ton of bleach, but blood’s a bitch to get out, an’ there was so much of it—_ Gasp. He’ll groan and grab his flame like hair in his hands. _Fuck. I’m no good at this. I been spendin’ all this time tryin’ to impress ya’ like a damn show pony, and then I fuck it all up because I wasn’t thinkin’._ Get distracted from your fear. Say: _You were trying to impress me?_

He’ll slap his hands over his mouth and turn beat red. Let yourself giggle as he groans comically. He’ll run his fingers through his hair and scratch the back of his head. Realize he’s nervous. Wonder why. He won’t look at you, letting his eyes linger on the ground to your left as he speaks: _I know I’m nothing great or anything, just a demo man, but I really like being around ya’. You’re bloody amazing, and I want to spend even more time around ya’ and hold your hand and kiss ya’ sometimes if you’re into it, and Jesus, I’m cocking this up too, aren’t I? Fuck._

Stare at him in stunned silence. The fear and worry will immediately be banished from your mind as you realize that the hope you’ve been trying to stifle has come to fruition. Be overwhelmed with the realization that Jamison likes you, that he wants to do with you all things you’ve been dreaming of doing with him. Be confused as his face slides into moroseness, as his tall body begins to slump in on itself. He’ll say: _Sorry, mate. Just forget about it._

Realize that he’s taken your silence as rejection. Shout: _No!_ Throw your arms around him. Take in his scent, diesel and concrete dust and sweat. He’ll immediately wrap his arms around you too, bury his face in your hair. Speak into his shoulder: _I really like you, Jamison. I want to hold your hand and kiss you sometimes too._ He’ll start to laugh, loudly and wildly. Laugh with him. Your bodies will shake against each other. He’ll hold you out at arm’s length, his smile stretching across his whole face, teeth sharp and gold, amber eyes alight with joy. Smile back with equal fervor. He’ll say: _Let’s go on a date, yeah?_  Reply: _Yeah_. Laugh with renewed energy as he slides his flesh fingers to intertwine with yours and begins tugging you toward the front yard. Ask: _Where are we going?_ He’ll look over his shoulder at you, smile still wide. _On a date._ Ask in disbelief: _Now?_ That smile will grow impossibly wider. _Too right!_

He’ll take you to the same boba shop you’ve been to with him dozens of times before. Everything will be the same as always. Everything will be completely different. Jamison will be nearly vibrating with joy. Be stunned that he is as excited as you are, that he probably hoped for this like you did. He’ll take every opportunity to casually touch you, a brush of fingers when handing you your cup, a gentle stroke to push your hair from your face, a hand holding yours on top of the table as you sit across from each other. He’ll say: _Ya’ know, I can hardly believe you’d give a bloke like me a fair go. You could get anybody ya’ want._ Smile at him. Try to wrap your head around the fact that he wants you to be with him so much, that he’s so very happy to be on a date with you. Say: _You’re the one that I want, Jamie._ Blush at using a nickname for him. Watch as he visibly melts. He’ll lay his head on the table in disbelief and reach out his metal hand to join the flesh one in holding yours. He’ll whisper: _Hooley dooley!_ and squeeze your hand tight. Reach out with your other hand, the one still stained with deep orange paint, and squeeze back.

On the ride back to your apartment, don’t stop looking at him. Watch as he continually sneaks looks at you, grinning madly each time like he can’t believe his luck. Don’t believe your luck. He won’t let go of your hand during the drive, metal fingers pulling you forward whenever he shifts gears. When you get home, he’ll walk you to your door. Stand there with him, both of you in ratty clothes covered in paint, both of you oblivious to anything but each other. He’ll say: _That was aces. Let’s go on another date._ Laugh and reply: _Now?_ He’ll scratch his long nose self consciously and chuckle. _How ‘bout tomorrow?_ Agree with a grin. He’ll lean down and kiss you chastely on the cheek with a giggle and say goodbye. Watch him walk away before he’ll suddenly turn around and bound back over to you, lifting you up into a hug and spinning you around. He’ll place you gently back on your feet, rub his long nose against yours, say: _Alright. Now goodbye for real._ Tell him goodbye again. He’ll turn around and wave to you three separate times before getting into his truck. You’ll feel inordinately happy. Touch your cheeks. They’ll ache from smiling. Go inside and throw yourself into your bed. Kick your feet and laugh like a child. Overflow with joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m really enjoying writing this story. I hope you all are enjoying reading it. This is not the end. There’s still quite a bit to go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where things get physical. There is some light (medium?) smut. This is the first time I have written second person erotica. I hope that you all feel that it turned out okay.

On Sunday, Jamison will take you to the aquarium. Make faces at the fish with him. Hold his hand while you walk around the tanks. Tell him you’re having a great time. He’ll smile, blush, kiss your cheek. On Monday, he’ll call you his sweetheart at work in front of your coworkers. Blush. He’ll say:  _ We’re together, right? I want everyone to know.  _ Grin at him. Lean forward over your desk to kiss his lips. At the last second, he’ll turn so you catch his cheek instead. He’ll giggle and wave goodbye as he heads out with the demolition crew. Assume he is being careful with public displays of affection because you’re at work. Understand. Have a wonderful day.

 

Time will pass.

 

He’ll take you on dates at least three days a week, spend time with you working on his trailer at least three more. It will seem as if you’re always together, and he’ll be kind and gentle, funny and chivalrous, and it won’t be enough. You’ll want him, want to kiss him, touch him with more than the sweet chasteness he’ll be bestowing upon you. 

 

On a Saturday afternoon, work with him in power washing the siding on his trailer. The sun will beat down on you, making both of you sweat until your hair is wet and dripping. He’ll say:  _ Whew! It’s bloody swelterin’ out, isn’t it?  _ And with that, he’ll unceremoniously strip off his shirt. Stare. You’ll have known that he was muscular and lean from all the sweet embraces you’ll have shared, but you won’t be prepared for what he’ll actually look like. Let your mouth drop open, and take in his form, the hard planes of his chest, the cut ripples of his stomach, the lean and strong back. Think:  _ Dear God!  _ The spray of the power washer will shower him in a fine mist, making him nearly glisten in the sun. Feel your temperature rise as heat that has nothing to do with the weather pools in your belly. Want him. Want to see him writhe beneath you as ride him. Want to see his long, sharp face twist in pleasure. Realize suddenly that you are alone with him, that you are already dating, that there is no reason to hold back anymore. Don’t hold back anymore. Move swiftly behind him. Wrap your arms around him and press yourself into his firm, sweat-sheened back. Run your hands across that chest just like you wanted. Let your fingers dance along the hard muscles of his stomach. Feel him freeze beneath your ministrations. Practically moan:  _ You’re so gorgeous, Jamie.  _ He’ll laugh. Freeze yourself. You’ll know that laugh, the one he makes when he’s uncomfortable and doesn’t know what else to do. Let go and take a step back. He’ll turn to face you. His grin will be awkward instead of genuine. There will be something in his eyes. Nervousness? Sadness? Fear? He’ll say:  _ You’re the gorgeous one, darl’  _ before kissing your forehead, turning around, and going back to power washing. Don’t understand. Be frustrated as your lingering desire is replaced by doubt. Think:  _ Did I do something wrong?  _ Think:  _ Does he not want me?  _ He’ll be pretending everything is fine. Pretend with him. 

 

Time will pass. 

 

Your desire for Jamison will not wane. If anything, the realization that he’s not ready for the next step makes you want him more. Go on dates with him. Spend evenings with him. Enjoy his chaste kisses, his hand clutching yours. Don’t push for more. Go home at night and touch yourself while you think of him. Imagine his sharp teeth nipping at your skin, his long nose pushing into your hair as he breathes harshly with exertion into your ear. Imagine that your hand is his hand, calloused and worn from the hard labor of his occupation and his hobbies. When you cum with a shout of his name, curl in on yourself and try not to cry. Try to believe that it’s just that he’s not ready. Try not to entertain the idea that he won’t ever take that step with you. Fail. Go on like this as long as possible. 

 

Time will pass. 

 

Sit on Jamison’s couch that you assembled with him on a Tuesday evening after work to watch a scary movie. It will be a dumb one with bad special effects and gratuitous nudity. Watch him watch it. Watch the way his tongue sneaks out to lick his lips as the main characters have sex with the murderer hiding in the shadows. Decide you can’t let things keep going the way they will have been. Think:  _ It’s now or never.  _ Carefully, deliberately, place your hand on his flesh knee. He’ll glance at it but won’t say anything. Leave it there as the lovers on television grow more passionate. When the music becomes more intense, again with careful deliberance, slide your hand up his inner thigh. Squeeze gently. He’ll quickly grab your hand without looking at you. He’ll hold it tightly in his, his palm sweaty and slightly trembling. Know that it’s time to say something. Do your best to ignore the fear in your heart, the tears that already stand on the edges of your eyes. Pull your hand from his. He’ll turn to look at you. The fear and sadness will be back in his amber eyes. Your voice will be shaky, but decide to speak anyway:  _ Jamison, if you’re not attracted to me, it’s okay. I really, really like you, but if you just want to be friends, I’m okay with that. You’re clearly uncomfortable with getting physical with me. I understand. Sometimes you think you feel one way about someone, but then—  _ Break off and being to cry. Try to stifle your tears. You won’t be able to. In the background, the main characters of the horror movie will scream. Be half tempted to scream with them. 

 

Jamison, for his part, will look horrified. He’ll drop his head into his hands and say:  _ Goddamnit.  _ Feel the exact moment that your heart breaks. Hurriedly try to dry your tears and stand to leave. He’ll grab your arm and look at you in desperation, shouting:  _ Don’t go! Ya’ got it all wrong!  _ Hesitantly return to your seat on the couch. The murderer on television will leave the bodies of the young lovers in a pool of blood on the bed. Jamison will look pained, but he’ll stare straight into your eyes and speak with such earnest honesty, that you’ll be unable to doubt him:  _ I do want ya’! I want ya’ so much that all I can think about at night is rootin’ ya’. You’re so pretty, darl. I wanna touch ya’ all over. I wanna treat ya’ so right that you’ll never think of anotha’ man again!  _ Feel lust coil tight within you. Push it to the side. Try to understand what the hell is going on. Ask:  _ Then why have you been pushing me away?  _

 

His eyes will fill with that same fear, that same sadness before he buries his face in his hands. Listen carefully as he speaks, for it’ll be muffled by his hands and his self-doubt:  _ You could have any bloke ya’ want.  _ Reassure him even though you’ll still be confused:  _ And I chose you, Jamie.   _ He’ll look at you through reddened eyes:  _ That’s ‘cause ya’ haven’t seen all of me yet. I’m only half a man, darl. I ain’t been with nobody since me accident. When ya’ see what I look like without these—  _ Here he will sullenly wave his metal arm and kick his peg leg before finally burying his face back in his hands.  _ Ya’ ain’t gonna wanna to be with me no more. I’ll give up rootin’ if it means havin’ ya’ by my side.  _ Feel a little guilty about the tremendous relief you’ll feel that Jamison seems to hate his own body, not yours. Feel also determination that you will teach him just how gorgeous he truly is. 

 

Climb bodily on top of him and situate yourself in his lap, forcing him to look up at you. Say:  _ You don’t have to give up anything. I want you, Jamie. You’re not half a man. You’re a whole man, a man I want to feel inside of me.  _ Roll your hips deliberately against him. He’ll stare at you in shock and awe. He’ll whisper:  _ But when ya’ see ‘em off, you’ll change your mind.  _ Lean in close with your hands against his chest. Whisper against his lips:  _ I won’t. I promise.  _ Kiss him. Moan as his hands, metal and flesh grip onto your back, suddenly desperate. He’ll slide his tongue into your mouth and rub it against yours. Put your hands in his hair and drag your nails along his scalp. Rock into him and feel him, hot and hard beneath you, rock back. The characters in the movie will be screaming from finding the bodies of their friends. Ignore them as Jamison hoists you up and carries you to his bedroom, kissing you all the while. 

 

He’ll plop you down awkwardly on the bed and giggle. It’ll be a real one, a nervous excited one. Watch him take off his shirt. Feel yourself throb with desire at the sight of him. Throw your top off as well, tossing it into the pile of dirty clothes that’ll be spilling from his hamper. He’ll groan and very nearly attack your chest, licking and sucking at your nipples. It’ll feel like an electric current straight to your core, and you’ll begin to leak into your underwear. Groan in appreciation. Moan his name. That’ll spur him to be more aggressive, adding tiny nips and working his way up to your neck. Suddenly you’ll feel a very painful pinch on your side. Yelp loudly. He’ll freeze, sit back on his heel, say:  _ Fuck. I’m sorry, darl’. I was hopin’ I could leave it on.  _ He’ll sit there for a moment staring at the yellow metal arm that bit into your skin with trepidation. Sit up and gently stroke his face. Reassure him:  _ Take them off, Jamie. I want you so badly. I don’t want to wait any longer.  _ Run your hands across your chest and pinch your own nipples to show him just how much you desire him. His eyes will grow wide.  _ Holy shit! Okay. Yeah. Okay.  _ He’ll reach down and undo some latches on his leg. Watch as the peg and metal joint separate from his body. He’ll drop it on the floor with a clang, look to you for your reaction. Reach your hand into your pants to fondle at your sex. Moan loudly. That will give him all the motivation and courage he needs to undo the latches on his arm and drop it to the floor as well. 

 

He’ll look at you, terrified. Remove your hand from your pants and lean forward to kiss him again. Then sit back and take his amputated arm in your hands. Be the first to touch its naked form other than a doctor or nurse. He’ll be trembling. Gently remove the white cover he’ll use to reduce pain when his arm is connected. Take in the jagged, angry scar where surgeons put him back together the best they could. Be the first to stroke it tenderly, the first to gently kiss it. Pretend not to notice the choked sound he’ll make. Give him a moment to recover by turning to shimmy out of your pants. Quickly crawl over to him and unzip his shorts. His cock will be half hard, exactly as thick and long as you’ll have been hoping, not too big, not too small. Think of Goldilocks and suppress a giggle that he’d likely misinterpret. Don’t give him a chance to struggle out of his shorts with one arm.  Slide them down his legs and toss them behind you. Carefully, as gently as possible, remove the covering from his stump. The scar will be far worse than the one on his arm, thick and wide and longer than you’ll expect. Run your fingers along it with reverence. Lean your forehead against it and be incredibly grateful to the nameless paramedics who rescued him from his blood soaked shop, to the faceless doctors who must have operated for hours to save him, to the nurses who cared for him, to the physical therapists who helped him learn to use his prosthetic limbs, to Torbjörn who let him keep his job, to everyone who made it possible for the two of you to be there together to share that moment. Be grateful most of all to Jamison who’ll have struggled and survived and trusted you enough to make himself vulnerable to you. Kiss his scar. Look up into his eyes that’ll shine with unshed tears and whisper:  _ Still here. Not changing my mind.  _

 

He’ll blink the wetness away and suddenly, as if a switch has been thrown, his face will turn feral with lust. Watch his cock grow fully hard. He’ll practically growl:  _ Well, if you’re sure ya’ want me, why don’t ya’ prove it?  _ Grin up at him. Trail kisses along his inner thigh. Nestle your nose in the course hair at the base of his dick. He’ll moan, pet your hair. Lick along the underside of his length. It’ll taste earthy and salty and you won’t be able to get enough. Take him into your mouth. Moan around him as you are finally, finally able to be intimate with this man you’ve desired for so long. He’ll moan too, call you  _ perfect  _ and let out a litany of praise that’ll blend together as you continue to suck on him. Continue like this until he grabs at your head to push you off.  _ Hooley dooley, you’re good at that. Ya’ gotta stop, or I’ll be done before we really get started.  _ He’ll run his thumb tenderly along your cheek.  _ Now get your sexy arse up here. Let ol’ Jamison show ya’ what he can do.  _ Laugh and comply. Let that laughter turn to moans as he dives into you, devouring your sex like a man starved. Enjoy it. Focus on the feeling of his tongue and lips worshiping you, his long, thin fingers sliding into you. They’ll pump while he worships your sex, everything working in tandem until you cum into his mouth. 

 

Lay there and try to catch your breath while he sits back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and grinning in such a self satisfied way that it will make you chuckle. He’ll crawl forward and open the drawer of his nightstand, the one you struggled with and he had to help you assemble.  _ Just gotta grab a franger.  _ Help him put on the condom he’ll pull out without him asking. Lay back and stare at his angular face as he leans forward and enters you slowly. Watch as he grabs your knee with one hand and reaches for its twin with the ghost of the other. He’ll frown. Try to distract him by moaning his name:  _ Oh god, Jamie. You feel so good.  _ It will work. That frown will morph into a smirk.  _ Yeah? Ya’ like the way I’m fillin’ ya’ up?  _ He’ll punctuate the question with a thrust of his hips. Let out a cry of pleasure in response. That will spur him forward, and soon he’ll be pounding into you with abandon. As the pleasure builds, reach out for him. He’ll fall forward heavily and plunder your mouth. Know that you’re the only one who’s ever seen him balance on his elbow and his stump with his forehead resting on yours as he pumps his hips and breathes harshly against your lips. That thought, that this man is  _ yours _ , that no one else has gotten to experience the way he makes love with only half his limbs, that you’re the only one he’s trusted, will drive you over the edge. Orgasm with a silent scream. Feel him still moments later as he too cums with a cry of your name. 

 

His half arm will slip out from under him, and he’ll fall on top of you, your sweat soaked bodies touching along their entire length. Think:  _ Dear god, that was perfect.  _ Feel completely satisfied, emotionally and physically. Gently stroke Jamison’s back. Feel him begin to shudder against you. Ask, concerned:  _ Are you alright, Jamie?  _ He’ll lift himself up. Tears will be streaming down his cheeks. He’ll say:  _ She’ll be right, darl’. God, this is stupid. What kind of drongo cries after sex?  _ Pull him back against you. Cry with him until you are both spent. Fall asleep in his arms. 

 

Wake up just before midnight. He’ll take you out to a 24 hour Chinese restaurant. Eat lo mein and laugh at Jamison when he tells you a stupid joke. He’ll take you home and kiss you deeply at your door. Consider inviting him inside. Don’t. Lay in bed feeling truly happy for the first time in a while. Your phone will buzz next to you. It’ll be a text from Jamison:  _ Miss you already.  _ Hold the phone close to your chest and smile. 

 

Time will pass. 

 

Your job will keep getting better as you get better at it. On a Thursday morning Jamison will be getting ready to leave with the demolition crew. He’ll flirt shamelessly with you at your desk. Torbjörn will call to him from the door:  _ Quit playing around and get in the truck.  _ Jamison will hurry toward the door, turn, and wave to you adorably with a detonator in his hand as he heads out. Wave back. Watch him in the parking lot scratching the back of his head and looking sheepish while Torbjörn reprimands him. He’ll glance at you through the window and smile, teeth sharp and golden. Realize in that moment that you are in love with him. Be inordinately hopeful about what comes next. Be absolutely terrified about what comes next. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you're enjoying this story so far. I truly appreciate each and every comment and kudos I have gotten. I honestly didn't think I'd be this far along in writing already, but they have kept me super motivated, so thank you all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments. They have really kept me motivated as I slowly put this chapter together. I really hope you enjoy it and that it’s worth the wait.

Spend the next few weeks loving Jamison, the way he never stops talking, his too loud laugh, his uncontrollable orange blond hair, the way he’s so quick to remove his prostheses to join you in bed, the adorable freckle on his nose. Love each and every thing about him. Don’t tell him. Imagine how he’ll react if you do: with overwhelming joy, shouting his love in return; with nervous apprehension, scratching the back of his head and biting his lower lip with those sharp, off-color teeth; with a scoff, saying: _I ain’t ready to be tied down, darl’. This is just suppose to be for fun. Maybe it’s time to call it off before ya’ get too attached, not that I’d blame ya’._ Then he’d wink and laugh and break your heart. Have no idea what to do. Look at his face as you watch yet another cheesy horror movie. His amber eyes will sparkle, and he’ll grin before pulling you close. Resolve to tell him when the time is right. Do your best to ignore the fear in your heart. Fail.

 

Time will pass.

 

Use most of that time looking for the perfect moment to tell Jamison the truth. On a date to the carnival, ride the ferris wheel with him to the top. Fireworks will go off unexpectedly, and he’ll be so excited that he’ll whoop and rock the carriage. His face will glow pink and purple and red in turn in the fireworks’ light. He’ll look at you with joy in his eyes. Don’t tell him. Lay together with him in his bed after making love, your head pillowed on his half arm, your thigh gently rubbing against the jagged scar on his leg. The windows will be open, and a cool breeze will blow in, rustling the orange curtains you will have helped him hang that afternoon. He’ll kiss the top of your head and say: _I dunno if I’ve eva’ been this happy, darl’._ Hum in agreement. Don’t tell him. After another delicious barbecue dinner, help Jamison build a huge bonfire in the field behind his trailer. Dance around it with him singing those same ‘80s songs he loves with no accompaniment. Drink sweet red wine straight from the bottle. He’ll run forward and grab you, lifting you up and spinning you around until his peg gets stuck in a soft patch of dirt and the both of you topple to the ground in laughter. He’ll kiss you deeply there in the dirt, then lean back and gaze at you with a blinding smile. The firelight will dance in his amber irises, making him seem somehow otherworldly. Don’t tell him.

 

Don’t tell him on the river cruise he’ll take you on when the two of you stand on the bough holding hands and looking out at the water. Don’t tell him when he calls you: _The cutest damn thing I’ve eva’ seen_ and peppers your face with kisses. Don’t tell him at the zoo when he acts like a monkey well enough for the chimpanzees to begin howling at him. Don’t tell him a week later when he shyly presents you with a little metal bouquet of flowers clearly welded together from scrap. Feel like your heart will burst unless you look right into his eyes and say: _I love you, Jamie._ Don’t.

 

Time will pass.

 

When you have finally finished everything else, plunk down an arrangement of artificial yellow and orange flowers in the middle of Jamison’s kitchen table. Declare the renovation of his trailer complete and celebrate with a high five. Offer to make him dinner. Ride with him to the grocery store. Buy chicken and all the ingredients for a homemade alfredo sauce. He’ll also buy a box of freeze pops and a box of condoms. Laugh and kiss his cheek because somehow you find even that adorable. Cook dinner at his stove with his long form nearly draped over your back like a cape. His chin will rest on your shoulder as he chats directly in your ear while you stir the sauce. He’ll _Hmmph_ in fake annoyance when he has to detach himself to let you drain the noodles. He’ll praise your cooking with a genuine smile while you eat together. Imagine what it would be like to do this with him all the time, to grocery shop, to cook and eat dinner, to sleep in bed with the man you love so dearly and wake up to him, likely snoring and drooling, before wandering into the kitchen to fry up some eggs while he makes coffee in his boxer shorts. Find that image strangely endearing. Go home that night. Go home every night, even when it’s clear Jamison is trying to work up the courage to ask you to stay.

 

Time will pass

 

Something horrible will happen. Don’t expect it at all when your phone rings with a number you haven’t seen in a long time. An aunt, one you loved dearly as a child before she moved halfway across the world several years before, will have died in an accident. Fold up with sorrow. Weep loudly in your apartment all by yourself. Look up tickets to fly there and say goodbye, and see through your tears that they are far too expensive for you to afford. Break down again. Call Jamison. Be too weepy to express yourself clearly. Get out that your aunt is gone, that you can’t afford to get to the funeral, but be unable to communicate much more than that before your tears choke your voice and keep you silent. You’ll hear frantic movement on the other end of the line. He’ll say: _Stay right there. I’m comin’!_

 

The drive from his trailer to your apartment will usually take twenty minutes. He’ll knock on your door in eighteen. Open it to see him leaning on the door frame, out of breath. He’ll be dirty and grease-stained from whatever project he’ll have abandoned to come see you. In his metal hand, he’ll be clutching a stack of bills, clearly just taken from an ATM from the way they'll be neat and new except for where oil from his hand will have rubbed off. He’ll look up at you and say: _I’m so sorry, darl’. This is all I got left after spending my nest egg on the trailer._ Feel gratitude and love mix with the grief in your chest, making the hole it will have punched there seem a little less yawning. Launch yourself into his arms and cry heavily. Don’t worry about the fact that your favorite shirt is probably stained beyond repair or that your neighbors can probably hear you losing it in the hallway. Press your face into his chest as he wraps his arms around you, and just like the first time you met him, feel better.

 

Once you are ready, bring him inside and sit together on your sofa. Tell him all about your aunt, the meals she cooked for you as a child, the way her laughter filled up any room she was in. He’ll nod, hold your hands in his, wipe your tears with fingers that will tremble ever so slightly. After about an hour, feel okay enough to count out the money he brought. It’ll be everything he has. It won’t be enough. He’ll stand immediately and head toward the door. _Gonna see what all I can sell to get the rest for ya’._ Panic. Stand hurriedly and wrap your arms around his back to keep him from getting further away. Say: _Please don’t go, Jamie!_ He’ll stop short, turn in your embrace to gently return it. Continue: _It would make me feel awful to have you sell your stuff to help me._ He’ll tuck your head under his chin, softly stroke your hair, and reply: _I jus’ wanna do everything I can for ya’._ The kiss he’ll lay on top of your head will be so delicate, you’ll barely be able to feel it. Think: _I love you more than anything._ Say: _I need you more than anything._ Whisper: _Please stay._ He will without hesitation. He’ll lead you to your room, lie down with you in your bed. Don’t think about the mess your sheets will be. Don’t think about how he likely left his front door open in his rush to get to you. Don’t think about the ticket you can’t afford or the funeral you can’t attend or the aunt you’ll never see again. Don’t think. Just lay there and let Jamison hold you and try to comfort you. Fall asleep holding his hand.

 

Wake up in the middle of the night. His hand will still be clutching yours. The lamp left on in the hall will shed a dim light over the room. Jamison will be sleeping, drooling slightly on your pillow and snoring softly just like you imagined he would. Realize that this is the first night you’ve spent together. Take in his face, the way his sharp features are softened by sleep. It will be a balm to the ache in your heart. Look to your clasped hands and think: _Everything will be alright as long as you never let go._ Grip his hand tighter. He’ll squeeze back without opening his eyes.

 

The funeral will come and go. Attend via video chat with Jamison by your side. He’ll be respectful and kind. He’ll wear his best suit jacket over tattered shorts that stay outside of frame. He’ll wrap his arm around you and hold you close, letting you cry into his shoulder when you need to. Take advantage of it. When the service is over, introduce him to your family on the other side of the world, he’ll say: _G’day. Nice to meet ya’. Wish it was under better circumstances though._ Your family will like him because no one can resist his easy manner and effortless charm. The ache in your heart will ease further. Be grateful that you didn’t have the money to attend, that instead you are here with him, comfortable in your heartache. Know that you’d feel more alone there with the family you’ve loved all your life than sitting in a trailer with the man you’ve just started loving. When the funeral is over and the call ends, when you’ve had dinner and watched two cheesy movies back to back, he’ll lift his head from atop yours where it will have been resting and say: _Since I got to meet yours, if ya’ want, when I get a little more money, we can go ‘cross the country and visit me rellies and me best mate._ Smile genuinely. Wrap your arms around him. Nod into his shoulder, which will still be damp with your tears. Whisper: _I’d like that._ Don’t tell him why.

 

Time will pass.

 

Jamison will get a raise. You will get a promotion to the Human Resources Department. Enjoy your new position, handling new hires and orientations and insurance paperwork. Think about how much you love Jamison a hundred times a day. Don’t say it out loud, even to yourself.

  
Schedule your vacation and Jamison’s for the same week at his insistence. Get in his truck apprehensive and excited and begin the day long road trip to meet his family and best friend. In the late afternoon, look over at him. The windows will be down, and the wind will be whipping through his unruly orange blond hair. He’ll be singing those ridiculous ‘80s songs as loudly as he can while staying relatively on key. He’ll look to you, at the way you’ll be looking at him, and smile at you with those sharp and golden and off-color teeth. Smile back. Say: _I love you so much, Jamie._ Let your eyes go wide as your brain catches up to your mouth. Turn red as you stare at his stunned face. You won’t have time to think much on it though because the truck will swerve violently to the side of the road. Grab the handle above your head to keep yourself from flying forward as it screeches to a stop. Jamison will throw open his door and sprint around to your side before wrenching your door open. He’ll lean in to unbuckle your seatbelt and help you turn toward him. He’ll hold your hands and look earnestly into your face. He’ll whisper: _Say it again._ Comply and let him kiss you. It will be long and sweet. He’ll be laughing and crying as he professes his love eagerly, desperately: _Oh god, I love ya’ so much, darl’. I’ve loved ya’ for so long. Think the moment I found ya’ under that desk, crying your eyes out I fell for ya’. I’ve been tryin’ to take it slow, not to pressure ya’, but it’s been so hard. I just wanted to tell you I love ya’ so many times because I do. I love ya’! I love ya’! I love ya’!_ He’ll punctuate each declaration of love with another kiss. Feel like you might burst with happiness and match each of his declarations with one of your own until it seems you’ve both made up for all the times you didn’t say it before. When you finally get back on the road, he’ll laugh with joy whenever he looks your way for the rest of the drive. He’ll say: _I just can’t believe I’m so lucky._ His amber eyes will shine in the sun, sparkling with happiness, with hope, with love for you. Don’t believe you’re so lucky.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally had an original character as the foil instead of McCree, but it just felt wrong. He's making bad choices here and will continue to. If you're a big McCree fan, I'm really sorry. I like him too, but no one else seemed to fit this part.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.

When you arrive at Jamison’s family home, do your best to keep the nerves down. It will be difficult, but when you see a kind-looking, thin woman standing outside the door waving frantically, it will get easier. It will be easier still when, as soon as you exit the truck, a pair of matching teenage redheads with Jamison’s sharp nose and equally sharp teeth barrel out of the door and into him, knocking him off his peg and onto the pavement. He’ll shout:  _ Watch out, ya’ bunch of drongos!  _ before laughing uproariously and gripping onto the two boys tightly. A huge mastiff will then shove past Jamison’s aunt, past the pile of Fawkeses on ground and straight into you. Brace yourself. Fall back into the door of the truck as the dog leaps up onto you. Laugh as it covers your face with kisses. Feel the nerves loosen and fall away as all four Fawkeses work to remove the huge dog from your face. Jamison will embarrassedly shout:  _ Bikkie, get off, ya’ big, dumb sheila!  _ His aunt and cousins will also be shouting:  _ Get down, Bikkie!  _ She won’t until your face is thoroughly covered in saliva and your heart is as light as it was an hour before when you were watching Jamison try to pay attention to the road instead of you. 

 

After getting cleaned up, stand in the living room with a beaming Jamison. He’ll introduce you with a flourish. Wave awkwardly when he tells them your name. He’ll turn and gaze at you longingly and call you:  _ the love of my life.  _ Grin happily as his cousins begin to pepper you with questions, each with the same thick accent as Jamison’s:  _ How’d ya’ meet Jamie? Where’d ya’ grow up? What’re your rellies like?  _ When the one on the left asks:  _ When ya’ gettin’ hitched?  _ Jamison will smack his flesh hand over his cousin’s mouth while he squawks indignantly. Jamison will giggle nervously and stutter:  _ I-we-we’re not- I’m not-  _ Save him. Say quietly:  _ Maybe one day.  _ Watch him nearly melt, letting his hand slide off the boy’s face. The cousin will instantly begin complaining. Jamison will straighten up, raise his bright yellow arm threateningly and say:  _ You’re just lucky it wasn’t me other one.  _ Laugh as his aunt calls you all to a dinner of pot roast and vegetables.

 

Sit down at the table on Jamison’s right side. Reach for his metal hand, and he’ll quickly, awkwardly reach his flesh hand across his body to offer it to you instead. His aunt will smirk at how he’s pretzeled himself up. Hold his hand under the table for the whole meal. Watch as all three male Fawkeses eat hurriedly, talking with their mouths full to you and Jamison’s aunt. She’ll be friendly and kind. Listen in awe to Jamison’s stories about how you met, about dates you’ve been on, about how much he loves you. Every detail will reveal that he has been as enamored with you as you have been with him. Jamison’s aunt will say:  _ Sounds like a keeper.  _ with a wink. Jamison will squeeze your hand where he is still holding it, take the time swallow his mouthful of potatoes and carrots, and say earnestly, seriously:  _ Too right!  _ Love him more than ever, more than anything. 

 

When his aunt offers you a piece of blueberry cobbler, Jamison will decline for you:  _ We’re heading out to see Mako.  _ He’ll grin at you, still pretzeled to hold your hand.  _ You’ll love him. I promise.  _ Think:  _ As if I could ever love anyone else again.  _ Say:  _ I’m looking forward to meeting him.  _ Squeeze his hand back. 

 

Mako will not be what you will expect. Jamison will have referred to him as  _ big guy _ in some of your conversations in the past, but that will not prepare you for the seven foot three inch behemoth of a man that greets you at the local creamery. He will be kind though and patient, patting Jamison gently on the back when he throws himself into the larger man, yelling:  _ Mako! Me best mate! How’ve you been? _ He will eat three times as much as you, twice as much as Jamison, and he will listen far more than he will talk. Learn through his sparse speech that this is the first time he’s seen Jamison since his accident, that he didn’t realize how far up the amputation on his leg occurred, that he’s been worried about how Jamison’s been holding up. Watch as he gazes at him gently, fondly and feel a kinship with the huge man who seems to care for your lover nearly as much as you. Jamison will rattle on and on, about Torbjörn’s, about you, about the trailer, about you, about all the machines he’s been tinkering with lately, about how much he loves everything about you. Mako will eye you with a knowing look. Blush under his gaze, and he will grin softly in return. Understand. Promise without saying anything that you’ll take care of the mess of a man you both care for, that you’ll trust each other to do what’s best for him. When Jamison goes to the bathroom after his second milkshake, Mako will say to you in a voice that seems to roll across the table:  _ You’re good for him.  _ Believe it. Whisper:  _ Thanks.  _

 

On the last day of your trip, after a week of outings with Mako, antics from the twins, delicious home cooking, and a myriad of kisses from Bikkie, Jamison will stand in the doorway holding your hand. After the requisite goodbyes and hugs and kisses and accusations of being a drongo for being away for so long, Jamison will promise:  _ We’ll be back next year ya’ cheeky fuckers.  _ Hold on to the  _ we _ in that sentence. An assumption that you will be there with him, that a year from now you’ll still be together, that he’ll still want you to visit his family, to be his partner. Let your heart swell with happiness while his aunt knocks him in the back of the head for his language. 

 

Time will pass. 

 

Enjoy your new position in human resources. Feel good about yourself as you become more and more proficient at your job. On a Tuesday afternoon, process a new hire who will smirk and tell you his name is Jesse. While you type in his information, he will comment on how good your shirt looks, on how it brings out your eyes. Look at him skeptically. He’ll say:  _ I’m serious, darlin’. It’s a good color for you.  _ Bristle at being called anything like  _ darl’ _ by anyone other than Jamison. Say in a very tight, very professional voice:  _ Thank you, Mr. McCree.  _ He will grin in an entirely inappropriate way. Resolve privately not to wear the shirt to work again, only on dates with Jamison. Think of the way he grins at you while you wear it, the way it makes his amber eyes sparkle and smile softly. Your new coworker will grin harder:  _ Now that’s a face I could get used to lookin’ at.  _ School your expression. Thank him for coming in and send him on his way. Frown heavily as he winks and closes your office door. Your phone will ping with a text from Jamison. It’s a selfie of him smiling widely with a detonator in his hand and an implosion in the background. Giggle to yourself. Respond eagerly with a heart emoji. He’ll reply with ten more. Hold your phone to your chest and sigh with happiness. Forget about the new hire.

 

Time will pass.   
  


Jesse will continue to flirt with you relentlessly. It will become bothersome. Go out of your way to avoid him. Put a new picture of you and Jamison laughing as you pet goats at the local farm prominently on your desk. Jamison will beam and giggle at the face you’re making:  _ Ya’ really liked that little blighter, didn’t ya’.  _ Laugh back:  _ What’re you talking about, Jamie? Of course I don’t just like you; I love you.  _ His smile will grow sharper:  _ Oh you’ve done it now!  _ He’ll tickle you mercilessly until it devolves into a soft kiss and he heads off with the demolition crew. When Jesse sees the picture, he will wink at you and pretend not to notice it.

 

Time will pass.

 

Something horrible will happen. Notice that each and every door in your building has a paper taped to it when you come home from work one day. The message it will contain will be concise and polite but devastating nonetheless. Try to process the fact that you are being evicted, that the building that you’ve lived in for the past few years is being torn down to make way for a shopping mall. Become seriously concerned about what you will do. The rent will have been fantastically cheap. Take a deep breath and look up other apartments nearby. Balk at price tags double and even triple your small rent controlled building. Begin to panic. Try not to cry. Do the one thing you’re sure will help. Call Jamison. Say:  _ Jamie, I don’t know what to do.  _ When you tell him what’s going on, he’ll begin to laugh. Get flustered. Then get indignant. Shout:  _ What’s so funny?  _ He’ll reign in his laughter as best he can. Imagine him grinning from ear to ear, teeth all sharp and off color:  _ Maybe I’m a drongo for thinkin’ so, but this is bonzer news! I’ve been lookin’ for a way of askin’ ya’ this. I know the trailer used to be bodgy and all, but it’s aces now thanks to ya’. No worries, darl’.  _ Here he will grow more serious:  _ Jus’ come home.  _

 

The answer will be so obvious it’ll take you a moment to recover. You made his trailer into a cozy and beautiful home. You designed it with him. You labored over it with him. Of course you should live in it with him. Of course that’s the next step. Whisper:  _ Really?  _ Hear his grin expand:  _ Too right! _ An hour later, the doorbell will ring. It’ll be Jamison with moving boxes, packing tape, and two boba teas. He’ll place the things down, rub the back of his head and say:  _ Figured there was no reason to wait.  _ Laugh and agree.

 

When you begin unpacking your things in the middle of the night, marvel at how well your life fits with his. The metal flowers he gave you will sit on his dresser. The photo of your mother will hang on the wall next to the one of his aunt and cousins. Your clothes will fill the empty drawers of his dresser. It will be perfect, like the trailer was made for you to live in it, to be a part of Jamison’s life. He’ll wrap his arms around you in a firm embrace from behind and whisper in your ear:  _ Welcome home, darl’.  _ Whip around to hug him properly. Your heart will clench. Here, it’s okay to cry.

 

Time will pass.

 

Jesse will not have given up flirting with you despite the fact that you know he’s seen you arrive at work with Jamison in his beat-up orange truck at least twice. Since Jesse is on the new construction team and Jamison is on the demolition team, they will not cross paths, so he has no idea that you’ve been dealing with Jesse’s unwanted advances for quite some time. Worry that bringing it up with him will just make him upset and possibly cause a confrontation. Deep down, want him to confront Jesse because you will be tired of fending him off. Decide instead to handle it yourself. The next time Jesse comes on to you, say:  _ I’m sorry, Mr. McCree, but I am just not interested. I am in a serious relationship, and I am very happy.  _ To your dismay, his grin will not falter. He’ll say:  _ There’s no ring on your finger, darlin’. Not too serious it seems.  _ Huff indignantly as he saunters away. The conversation will leave such a bad taste in your mouth that Jamison will notice when he gets off his shift. He will ask in a very concerned voice:  _ Ya’ okay, darl’?  _ Assure him you’re fine and kiss his sharp nose. Enjoy the giggle that bubbles up from him.

 

Time will pass.

 

Jamison will come home one evening from the store in a heavy rain with a frown on his face and a bundle in his arms. The power will flicker as he looks at where you sit on the couch seriously. He’ll say:  _ I know I shoulda asked before I came home with her, but she was lookin’ so sad out in the parkin’ lot and-  _ The bundle will let out a pitiful meow. Spring forward to look in his arms to see a soaked calico kitten wrapped in a greasy towel. Cover your mouth to keep in a squeal at how cute and pathetic she is. He’ll ask earnestly, almost begging:  _ So, can I keep her?  _ He’ll wait for your answer as if it’s not his home, not his life, not his decision, but a choice for the both of you. Say:  _ Of course! _ and grab a fresh orange towel to help clean her up. Once she is dry and fed with the kitten food Jamison grabbed at the store, she will sit on his lap and purr as he pets her. He’ll stare down at her with something like awe in his eyes and whisper:  _ What should we name her?  _ Assure him that it is up to him. He’ll smile without looking away from her small body:  _ I’m gonna call her Pancake.  _ Love him. Love them both.

 

Time will pass.

  
Stand with Jamison at the top of the hill you climbed nearly every day leaving your old apartment and look at the building you once called home. Think of the times you had with Jamison there, of the dinners, of the day your aunt died, of the love you made in the room hiding behind the third story window on the right. Think too of the future you have now, of the home you share, of Pancake, and feel nothing but excitement when Jamison wraps your hand around the detonator in his. When Torbjörn yells that they are ready, Jamison will look at you with glee shining in his amber eyes.  _ Go on, darl’.  _ Press the bright red button with him and feel a heady rush as explosions ring out and the building begins to topple. It will be exhilarating. Laugh, loud and hard and grab Jamison into a deep kiss which he’ll happily return. Laugh into his mouth and kiss him until Torbjörn starts complaining. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there you have it. I have the story all planned out, but due to a really difficult work schedule and having a baby, I'm not sure how often I will be able to update it. Please leave me your thoughts. They are really encouraging and help with motivation.


End file.
